


The Late Bus to Alpha Centauri

by meiastar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's crisis of conscience, Crowley's not crying; you're crying, Dry Humping, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Stop (Good Omens), hand-holding, love declaration, we're on our own side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 20:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20588702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meiastar/pseuds/meiastar
Summary: They were going to Crowley’s flat.  There, he could take anything that was offered to him.  Or another way of looking at it: he could give Crowley anything he wanted.





	The Late Bus to Alpha Centauri

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I wasn't _planning_ on writing this, but once I found out they really did hold hands on the bus, it just had to happen. Plus it was an excuse to write about Aziraphale's evolution of faith, which is a subject I've explored to death in my own life.
> 
> I've checked a few times for mistakes and typos; hopefully I haven't missed anything.

“You can stay at my place. If you like.”

Aziraphale knew what was being offered. His heart stuttered with the sharp pain of yearning, and he stared at his friend. The openness of his body. His torso’s backwards tilt, an assurance that he would not crowd or pressure him. And yet. An invitation, on so many levels. He knew Crowley would give him as much or as little as he asked. He had never felt the unspoken hang between them so heavily.

The reflexive closing of a door. He couldn’t. It wasn’t allowed. The choice was out of his hands. As much as he’d like to...as much as he felt himself pulled toward it with every fiber of his being, he belonged to heaven. 

It had never sat so uneasily with him before. 

A lump felt sharp in his throat and he tried to swallow it down, tried to talk around it. Tried to let his friend down easy. Surely he could see- “I don’t think my side would like that very much.” His voice was rough, and he looked away. Sorrow felt like physical pain in his chest. He felt it sinking down into his gut, as if each word he spoke was also a rock he swallowed.

“You don’t have a side anymore.”

It was said so gently, but it rang in his ears like an alarm bell. He was staring at Crowley again, anxiety pushing up through his chest.

“Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.”

He felt the trueness of it wash through him like ice water, and he shivered. He was alone. He was _alone_. _They_ were alone. As if the ground fell out from under him, his stomach swooped unhappily. His mind’s eye supplied him with an image, a little unhelpfully, he thought, of his tiny human shaped body in a vast and reckless sea, a white dot overwhelmed by the forces of nature, of God. His safety net… his safety cage… gone. It had been gone for quite some time, had it not? He had been holding on to it for dear life, when he really should have been trusting the only one who had ever proved himself to him. He had allied himself with heaven for so long, despite their deplorable behavior. Despite every urge he had that what they were doing was wrong, _wrong, **wrong**_. He thought it was his fault. His imbalance. And so it was easier to stay on earth. Where he could forget about heaven for a while, and simply enjoy living. As much as he could. Between assignments. And yet. Crowley had always been there.

He had hoped that it was all a big misunderstanding. That if he could only talk to God, he could bypass these bloodthirsty angels and grasp at real peace.

It was not. He hadn’t really had time for it to sink in, the bitter disappointment of his conversation with the Metatron. What do you do when your conscience tells you that God is wrong? Do you fall? He didn’t want to fall. He did not belong in Hell. Neither did Crowley, really. But he no longer wanted heaven, either. Nor could he imagine Crowley being happy there. If only they could be left alone, on earth. Could they?

The bus lumbered to the stop, and Aziraphale felt resolve solidify in his core. No more pushing Crowley away. His friend had more than proved himself a better person than any of the angels he knew. He was the only being he could trust, that he would trust. They were in this together, and damn Heaven and Hell. He felt amazed at the strength that suddenly coursed through him. He felt stronger and braver than he ever did following orders from upstairs. Peace and certainty flooded through him. Could it be, that God was as renegade as he was? Or was God as clueless and selfish as her angels?

Crowley sauntered before him and slid like water into a window seat, tipping his head back and stretching his legs out as if he were going to take a nap. As Aziraphale sat, he almost unthinkingly reached out to take Crowley’s hand. It was an urge that had often been there, one he had always repressed. Well, no more of that. If he wanted to hold his dear demon’s hand, then by Jove, he was going to hold his hand. If that was all right with Crowley of course. 

He shifted his gaze sideways and down. Crowley hadn’t moved a muscle. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he was still breathing. His hand was cool and dry, and he felt his fingers’ answering pressure against his own. His gaze was unreadable underneath his glasses, but the fact that he hadn’t recoiled or turned away encouraged him. Satisfied, Aziraphale nodded once and turned his attention to the road ahead, and to the thoughts that still shuffled and settled and resettled behind his eyes.

They were going to Crowley’s flat. There, he could take anything that was offered to him. Or another way of looking at it: he could give Crowley anything he wanted. 

He sobered at the realization of how much Crowley had given him. How little he asked of him. And the one time he did ask something of him, holy water, he had thrown it back in his face and put distance between them with words. He remembered Crowley’s wounded anger flashing through his teeth as he hissed at him. And the loneliness that followed, that the angel tried to fill with human experiences. He made out with Oscar Wilde once. It was weird. 

The books in the bombed out church. Crowley had made the rescue seem almost careless, but Aziraphale knew better. 

The past few days. Crowley’s continued insistence that they go off together. How those words struck terror in the angel’s heart. Yes, terror for Crowley’s safety. Yes, terror for his own. But also terror of the unknown. The terror of heaven no longer having his back. But it hadn’t really had his back all along, had it? There was only Crowley. Sharp, prickly, starkly _good_ Crowley. And yet he kept pushing him away. Oh, god, he could remember his face when he told him it was over. Aziraphale’s breath almost knocked out of him at the memory. He very well could have ruined everything with those words, but Crowley had simply tried again the next day. Apologized and begged. And Aziraphale rejected him, _again_. 

He sighed and turned his face fractionally toward Crowley. “I’ve been such an idiot,” he said.

“Yep.”

He couldn’t help chuckling fondly. Then he sighed again, and turned a little more earnestly. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley went to wave his hand at him, but forgot that it was still being grasped tightly on his knee, so his other hand flitted up and down halfheartedly. He mumbled something that sounded a bit like, “ehh yyeeaaah meh.”

“You’re right. We’ll talk at home.”

Crowley’s only acknowledgement was a raise of his brows and a slow shake of his head. Perhaps it was disbelief, perhaps it was a well-deserved rejection. Aziraphale didn’t know, but he could wait. Some things were worth making time for. He rubbed his thumb atop Crowley’s thumb while he waited. Crowley didn’t move, though Aziraphale did notice that his chest rose and fell a few times very slowly and deeply.

Aziraphale led the way off the bus, and stood back to allow Crowley to lead the way to his flat. Bubbles of anxiety began to well up in the angel’s stomach, and he fiddled with his fingers while Crowley fiddled with his keys at the door.

The door locked behind Aziraphale as he entered the foyer, and Crowley strode ahead, making for the wet bar. “What’ll it be, angel? I got a nice bottle of vermouth…” He unscrewed the cap and gave it a whiff. 

“That will be fine, thanks.” Aziraphale hovered in the doorway, taking in the austere yet somehow soothing environment. It was soothing in a very unstimulating way. Seemed like a good place to go for quiet reflection, or nap.

Crowley placed a couple of large ice cubes in two glasses and poured, placing the bottle and one glass on the coffee table. He sipped his own and fell into the couch. 

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured as he slowly perched beside him and inhaled the aroma over the rim, smiling in pleasure. He eyed Crowley as he took a sip, but the demon only rested his head against the back of the couch and kept his eyes closed.

‘Crowley.” He replaced his glass on the table and turned to his friend, resting his hands in his lap. Crowley’s face turned toward him fractionally, part of his yellow irises visible at an angle behind his glasses. “I believe you deserve an apology.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and turned his face away. “No, I don’t.”

“You _do_. Listen to me.” He placed his hand on Crowley’s knee, which certainly got his attention. He patted it gently as he spoke. “I know I’ve been focused on my own self-preservation. I know I’ve been worried about yours. But you’ve done nothing but speak truth to me since we first met, and you’ve been nothing but patient as I muddled along figuring things out for myself. Yes, I’ve been afraid for myself and I’ve been afraid for you. But I also thought that I was afraid of you, of what you represent, and it turns out I’ve mainly been afraid of myself.”

“And what do I represent?” Crowley’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“I used to think you represented hell. Sinfulness. But you’re not a representation of anything. You are only yourself, purely and truly. That’s why you didn’t fit in in heaven, and it’s why you don’t fit in in hell.” Crowley’s eyebrows drew together in pain. “And that’s why… I love you.”

Crowley’s face blanked out and he froze, not even breathing. Aziraphale saw his distress but soldiered on. 

“Don’t answer me if you can’t. I don’t expect anything from you. You’ve already given me so much, and I’ve disregarded it at every turn. I fear any peace of mind I currently have right now is completely the fault of your unwavering friendship. I don’t know what will happen to us, and I regret that it’s taken me this long to really see you. I wish I could…” Here his voice cracked, and he withdrew into himself in an attempt to regather his thoughts. 

He heard Crowley’s whine as he gazed at his lap, and felt a hand clutch at his arm. Crowley’s body hadn’t changed position, but his lips were parted and his forehead was creased with concern. He tried to speak, but no words came, and he shook his head and sat up, reaching. 

With a moan, Aziraphale closed the space between them and pressed their lips together. His fingers clutched Crowley’s jaw, whose hands were clutching his upper arms. The angel drew back and touched the sunglasses. “May I?” 

Crowley nodded and his golden eyes were revealed, open and nakedly yearning, dilated in the dark room with want. It felt as if Aziraphale’s entire heart flipped over inside, and he dropped Crowley’s glasses, pressing him back into his seat and leaning over him, sealing his mouth with his lips and tasting him urgently. A shaky, breathy moan escaped from Crowley’s mouth as his lips parted, and suddenly he was no longer sitting still. He pulled Aziraphale impossibly closer, his legs writhing, tilting his head, wrapping his arms around him, his hands clutching his back and questing lower, returning to the angel’s face and holding it still while he slanted his lips open and licked into his mouth, arching his back, pressing their chests together, then pulling at Aziraphale’s waist with one hand as the other held the back of his head, simultaneously gentle and pressing. 

Aziraphale was breathless and boneless, borne along by Crowley’s need and reveling in the pleasure of surrender. His heart felt as if it would burst, and hammered against his ribs in joy. Crowley’s hips bucked up as he moved his hand downward, squeezing a generous handful of angelic cheek, then held him there while he ground his body up into him. 

All of the blood seemed to rush out of Aziraphale’s head at once, and he nearly fainted from the burning contact of their groins pressed together. He rolled his hips experimentally, and was unable to check a deep guttural groan that punched out of his lungs. Crowley gasped and writhed, baring his neck to him, grinding back. Aziraphale wanted to eat him, he thought, and opened his mouth against Crowley’s throat, licking and sucking and scraping his teeth. He could feel the demon’s body undulating underneath him, the insistent aching throb in his pelvis driving him to thrust against him more and more urgently. 

Suddenly he pulled his lips away, gasping and maybe a little panicked. “Oh Crowley, oh. I’m… something’s happening, I don’t know what I… I need to stop…” 

Crowley’s eyes widened as he stared up at him, grabbing his face in his hands. “No, no, please, angel, don’t stop. I _need_ to see you come. You have no idea how much I need to see you come apart. _Please._”

Aziraphale stared back at him helplessly, and managed a hoarse and less than eloquent “Okay.” His thrusting had slowed a little, and he felt Crowley’s hands drift down to cup both his cheeks and squeeze him into his body. He moaned, his eyes rolling back, and buried his face in Crowley’s neck.

Crowley clutched at his hair. “Oh no you don’t, angel. I need to see your face. Don’t hide from me.” His voice was gentle, barely louder than a whisper. 

Aziraphale raised his head and tried to focus on Crowley’s face, but a haze of lust had settled over him and he was only aware of the shooting arrows of agonized pleasure that shot through his body. Crowley’s eyes were wide and an avid grin had spread across his face as he watched his angel lose control. “Yes, yes, yes,” he gasped as Aziraphale froze for a breath, then shuddered and groaned out his orgasm, rocking against his body. “Fuck. Yes.” He repositioned himself slightly and rutted hard and fast against Aziraphale’s thigh. 

The angel had collapsed against him, but quickly realized what was happening. “Oh… my dear.” He raised his gaze shyly, blinking at the gorgeous yellow gaze that was returned on him. “M...may I?” 

“I… yeah…” Crowley seemed stunned, or at least surprised, and relaxed into his seat and gestured vaguely toward his crotch, smiling up at the angel with interest. 

He watched Aziraphale’s trembling hand as it hovered over the fly of his trousers, then came to rest on him, squeezing gently and noticing his heat and hardness. He undid the button, then slowly pulled the zipper. Reverently, he reached under the waist of his pants and freed his glorious long cock, shining red and dripping with precum. The angel ran a thumb along the tip and brought it to his lips, tasting it. Crowley had forgotten to breathe again as he watched him taste. Then Aziraphale locked into eye contact and gave him a few tentative pulls. Crowley’s hips stuttered up into his hand and his eyes fell closed. He licked his lips as Aziraphale leaned closely over him and pressed kisses to his face while finding a good rhythm. 

“Is this good, my darling?” 

Crowley nodded his head, parting his lips and panting against Aziraphale as the angel gently tasted them each, suckling and gently pulling them into his mouth, between his teeth, then licking with his tongue. 

“Shall I keep going?”

Crowley’s forehead creased and he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and pulled him in, whimpering. “Please,” he breathed, his voice catching on a sound that sounded very much like the beginning of a sob. Then he gasped, stuttering his hips up. “Faster. _Faster_.”

Aziraphale adjusted his angle and pumped his cock as fast as he could, watching Crowley’s face as he moaned and gasped, muscles twitching, until finally he spilled, hot and wet, into the angel’s hand. Crowley’s hands were clutching at his shirt as he came, his head thrown back and his mouth open as breathless cries filled the room. Aziraphale gently released him, and miracled the mess off his hand, Crowley’s clothes, and out of his own pants, for that matter. 

Crowley threw an arm across his eyes, his chest heaving as he came back down to earth. Aziraphale curled up next to him on the couch, almost in his lap, and ran his fingers through his soft red hair. He could see Crowley’s throat working, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “My darling Crowley,” he breathed, and touched his arm. “I would very much like to kiss you, if that’s all right.” 

Crowley wiped his arm across his eyes and sniffled loudly. “Yeah, all right.” His face was red and blotchy, his eyes wet. 

Aziraphale did not want to make him more uncomfortable than he already was, so did not say a word. He cupped his jaw and brushed their lips together, then after a moment kissed his wet eyelids, his forehead, his cheeks, his jaw, and his lips again. Crowley let him, pliant under his touch, tilting his head this way and that to give better access.

Aziraphale sat back and took a deep breath, and Crowley peeked at him through a slitted eye, his lips tilting into an amused smirk.

“You’re still an idiot though.”

Aziraphale laughed, a little regretfully. “Yes, but I’m _your_ idiot.”

Crowley smiled, a real smile. And then a touch of sadness crept into his eyes.

“For how long though.”

Aziraphale took another deep breath. “I- I think I have an idea.”


End file.
